


nothing but light

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: If anyone, Neymar thinks it’s going to be Messi he bonds with. He's, unsurprisingly, wrong.





	nothing but light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the trope prompt of the football prompts challenge. Big thanks to [Vivian](https://pulisicschristian.tumblr.com/) for making this presentable, I really appreciate it.

 

**Beginning**

 

*

 

If anyone, Neymar thinks it’s going to be Messi he bonds with.

 

The first few times they play together it isn’t perfect, but there’s something there already, a hint of magic that makes everyone around them sharper.

 

Leo is -

 

overwhelming. Sharp and straightforward and brilliant, like a mountain stream that always finds a way to its destination. Sometimes when Neymar sees him across the pitch, figure striking and bigger than his body, it feels just like a video game, like some sort of alternative reality he hasn’t earned yet

 

\- exactly as Neymar imagined him.

 

It’s embarrassing how much he wants a taste of that greatness for himself.

 

It’s not just Leo. There are Xavi, sharp eyes and a sharper sense of humor, and Andres, gently smiling at his side, their movements supernaturally in sync. And then there’s Gerard, grinning even when he sweeps Neymar off his feet, grinning wider when he sees him frown.

 

“Welcome to Barcelona,” he says, and Neymar smiles despite himself.

 

The season starts. They win their first game but play badly. The lose the second. The third is goalless right through the first half and most of the other.

 

Neymar feels frustration gather like bile in his throat. He keeps getting tripped and kicked, and his body isn’t fast enough to avoid, to outrun. He sees the ball, all the golden paths leading to the goal, but he can’t get there fast enough.

 

The game nears its end and his body is all frustration and clawing desire, and the ball is right _there_.

 

Suddenly, it’s like his body splits. He thinks it hurts for a moment, it’s so strange, seeing the pitch from two focal points at the same time and the path is a clear blissful expanse of green.

 

His foot connects. The crowd erupts into a roar that he can barely hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

 

Goal. The announcer says. Number three, Gerard Pique.

 

Neymar breathes in, pinches his body to make sure his feet are firmly on the ground, and then he runs to the celebrations.

 

Gerard towers over him as he comes nearer, and for a moment, Neymar can’t read him, but then he opens his arms in clear invitation. The first touch is just that.

 

And then suddenly Neymar isn’t alone in his own head and Gerard is chuckling into his ear, pressing a brief kiss to his sweaty temple.

 

“Well, this is unexpected,” he says, and Neymar hears him, over the roar, over his heartbeat, feels like he would hear him anywhere.

 

It isn’t bad. Not at all.

 

*

 

They win the game. Coming off the adrenaline, exhaustion dogging his steps, all Neymar can think about is Gerard. The bond sparks in his mind, like a single firefly calling out in the dark. They meet in the center circle, Gerard’s arm around his shoulder, Neymar’s around his waist, and the urgency recedes, a little.

 

“Okay?” Gerard asks, and Neymar nods, the words getting all jumbled up in his head. “We have to tell management.”

 

And they do, Neymar knows they do, but he suddenly very desperately doesn’t want to go through it, dredging up bits and pieces of Spanish to explain the situation, not that he particularly knows what to say in the first place. It happened, as it does. There are ways to break it off if one really wants to, but even the thought of it fills him with dread.

 

Gerard must sense some of it, because he draws him tighter against his side, protective.

 

“Don’t worry,” Gerard says, “I’ll take care of everything.”

 

Relief floods through his senses and he nods, again, quietly.

 

*

 

Gerard does take care of everything. By the time Neymar’s showered and changed, there’s a soundproof conference room waiting for them. In it, Bartomeu clinks the ice in his whiskey nervously, talking in murmured voices with some of his closest staff. He straightens up when they come in, and smiles at them. It looks fake. Neymar doesn’t like him much, and he can sense that while outwardly friendly and jovial, Gerard’s feelings are marred with sharp gray lines of contempt.

 

The Mister looks grumpy, but he offers them a nod when he sees them, and it’s curiously reassuring.

 

They sit. Gerard explains. Neymar’s thoughts drift despite his best intentions to stay focused on the conversation.

 

His new bond with Gerard shines in his mind, placated by their nearness but still bright. He doesn’t touch it, afraid it might distract Gerard, but he observes it for a while, feeling the surface of Gerard’s emotions. His first impression was that Gerard was a man who wore his emotions on his sleeves, but the longer he watches, compares Gerard’s nonchalant visage with the sparks of anger that fly every time someone from management speaks, the more he realizes that he thought wrong.

 

He moves on from observing Gerard, to the bright silver and gold that connects him to his sister in his mind. He pokes it, feels her instinctively push back, questioning. He sends her what he hopes is a wave of reassurance, and she settles. She’s still in Barcelona, visiting him, and he feels her cleanly, would be able to find her in the dark with how brightly she shines.

 

She has to go back to Brazil soon. He’s dreading it. She is too, he knows. That helps.

 

The only other bond he has is a thin gray band, only a husk of a living thing. Enough to know that Ganso is alive somewhere in Santos, but not much else. He draws away from it, makes another resolution to call his former teammate soon. He probably won’t.

 

The bond breaking hurt Ganso much more than it hurt him. It’s hard to feel like he won’t be poking at a bruise.

 

Neymar returns to the conversation right as it’s winding down into an uncomfortable silence. He wonders if he’s supposed to say something, but no one is looking at him expectantly. The ice in Bartomeu’s glass has melted, and he looks confused, the lines on his forehead popping out unattractively.

 

When he speaks, he addresses Neymar. “We figured it would be Messi,” he says, and the disappointment in his voice makes Neymar bristle, even though just a few hours ago he thought the same thing. Gerard sits casually next to him, not a line in his body expressing his annoyance. “Can we break it off and try again? I don’t see how this will be useful.”

 

“No,” Neymar is on his feet before he even realizes what he’s doing. Gerard’s hand closes around his wrist.

 

The president opens his mouth, looking disgruntled, but Tata Martino cuts him off, apparently finally ready to join the proceedings.

 

“Breaking the bond will lead to complications,” he says, “we can’t afford that right now, and there’s no way to tell if anything else will take. We’ll find a way to work with it,”

 

“We won’t break it,” Gerard affirms again, quietly, and Neymar sits back down, relieved and grateful.

 

Bartomeu shrugs. “Fine,” he says, swirls his drink and seems annoyed when it makes no clinking noise, with the ice all melted.

 

“We’re going now,” Gerard says, tugs Neymar out of his chair by the hand around his wrist.

 

“Make sure you drop by the doctors before you leave,” the Mister says, and Gerard nods.

 

Neymar takes a deep breath when they’re finally out of the room.

 

“That was unpleasant, wasn’t it?” Gerard asks, grinning. The gray annoyance is completely gone from his side of the bond. He seems as jovial as ever. “The doctors are nicer, I promise. They’re used to dealing with this.”

 

He waves a hand between them and Neymar can’t help how his mouth twitches up in a smile.

 

“Are there a lot of bonded pairs on the team?” he asks as Gerard leads them to an elevator and presses the button.

 

“A few,” Gerard says, shrugging, “we don’t really tell the media about it though.”

 

Neymar nods. That’s common policy for clubs. Doesn’t stop everyone from speculating though.

 

Gerard continues. “There are Xavi and Andres, but you could probably guess that.”

 

“They seem very in tune with each other.” More like they could read each other’s mind.

 

“Never play cards with them. You’ll lose,” Gerard grins. “Puyi and Masche too, though you’d never guess it.”

 

“And you?” Neymar asks, curious. “Are you bonded with anyone else?”

 

“With Cesc, at La Masia,” Gerard says, shrugs. “It died out when he left and didn’t renew when he came back.”

 

“Oh,” Neymar says, and before the silence gets awkward, they arrive at the physio office.

 

The whole medical team is waiting for them there, obviously alerted to what happened. They do half a physical exam and some readings and everything comes up clean.

 

“You might want to stick close to each other for the rest of the week,” the doctor tells them. “The bond is still pretty fresh. We don’t really think there’ll be any complications, but just in case.”

 

“We can go to my house,” Gerard says, grinning, “it’ll be like a sleepover.”

 

His enthusiasm spills over to Neymar and he laughs too. “I’ll tell my dad we’re having a pillow fight.”

 

*

 

**Middle**

 

*

 

Barcelona with Gerard is an entirely different experience than seeing the city on his own. Gerard seems to know everyone, from city officials to street sweepers. They dine in small restaurants hidden between old crumbling buildings, where the cooks call Gerard ‘son’ and give Neymar bigger portions because they think he’s too skinny to be any good at football.

 

Following Gerard through side streets and back alleys, it feels like the city is opening up underneath them, full of ancient secrets and friendly faces. Gerard belongs there in a way that Neymar doesn’t remember ever experiencing.

 

It’s like a big family, except instead of asking you when you’re getting married, the aunties ask you how many goals you’re planning to score this season.

 

It feels like if he closes his eyes, he’ll feel echoes of Gerard in every bit of this city, the thin golden thread of his love spreading across the streets, creating bonds with everyone. It makes it feel like home.

 

*

 

Shakira comes home on a Monday. She’s heavily pregnant and unbelievably beautiful, and Neymar wrings his hands as he watches her and Gerard kiss and hug. Gerard glows brightly in Neymar’s head, his joy, and his love an almost palpable thing. It should be doing something to soothe the nerves, but it just makes them worse.

 

When she turns to him, there’s a smile playing in the corners of her mouth, but up close he can see the tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, the traces of exhaustion from a long flight and her pregnancy.

 

“Hello,” he says, and she smiles wider.

 

“Hi,” she says, “are you my husband’s bonded?”

 

It’s a rhetorical question. She knows who he is, can probably feel him muted through Gerard like Neymar can feel her, a warm silver strand wrapped around Gerard’s bright light. They’re true soulmates, Gerard and Shakira, and being privy to that connection feels almost invasive.

 

“Yes,” Neymar says anyway, and ducks down when she comes closer so they can keep eye contact. She reaches up to stroke his cheek, her fingers soft and warm over his skin.

 

“Welcome to our home,” she says, simply, and Neymar feels for Gerard through the bond, the joy, the pride in him, and feels comforted.

 

*

 

It’s strange to think that he’s more experienced with babies than either of them are. The first time he comes over after Milan is born, he changes his diaper without any fuss and Gerard looks at him like he’s magic.

 

Being around them does make him miss Davi more and more, and he spends a lot of time with him on Facetime, trying not to feel guilty about all the things he’s missing about him growing up. On top of that, their season isn’t going well, and Tata Martino is losing his hold on the team. Neymar does his best on the field, but it’s not enough, nothing fits right and the rumors grow louder.

 

He has a spare bedroom at Gerard’s house, for when things feel like too much. He drives there sometimes, in the middle of the night, after all of his friends have gone to bed and there’s nothing to quiet his mind. There’s always someone up to meet him. Milan is a fussy child and he rarely sleeps through the night.

 

And when he feels at his worst, when Bruna won’t return his calls and he’s serving a five match suspension, Gerard finds him.

 

“Come with me,” he says, calmly, plainly, and Neymar gets too focused on the dark circles under his eyes to protest.

 

Gerard leads him to the master bedroom, where Shak is sitting up in bed with a book, dressed in a white sheer nightshirt. She smiles at Neymar when he walks in, dragging his steps meekly behind Gerard. She’s always smiling at him.

 

“Get in,” Gerard sits down on the edge and points at the middle of the bed, and Neymar looks between him and Shak with confusion.

 

“Isn’t that weird?” he says, after taking some time to collect his thoughts. He feels through the bond for Gerard but feels nothing except genuine concern and care.

 

“Not that weird,” Gerard says, shrugging. “I’ll be up in an hour with Milan anyway.”

 

Neymar looks to Shak, at a loss and she smiles wider, pulls down the covers. “It’s alright,” she says, “we’ve talked about this. We want you here.”

 

And that’s how he ends up climbing over Gerard to settle between them on the bed, sinking into the soft pillow and the scent of their laundry detergent. After a moment, Gerard settles behind him. The connection is always stronger when they’re touching and Neymar lets the waves of reassurance wash over him as he settles. Shak turns off the nightlight and burrows under the covers next to him. The darkness makes him brave, and he reaches over to find her hand under the sheets. She squeezes his fingers reassuringly.

 

It’s not that strange, he supposes. He and Gerard have a platonic bond, but it’s not uncommon for that to grow into something stronger, for the feelings of his bondmate for his true mate to spill over. Whatever it is, he feels comfortable there, between them, sinking into the echoes of Gerard’s dreams and Shak’s fingers around his like a tether.

 

It feels like it’s somewhere he can belong.

 

*

 

**End**

 

*

 

“It’s ridiculous,” Gerard says, folding up the newspaper in his lap. Shak looks up from where she’s helping Sasha eat, and Milan and Davi run by, yelling and giggling. “These rumors are getting so out of hand.”

 

Neymar is quiet, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s gotten cold while he’d been trying to wrangle Davi into some of Milan’s clothes because he’d decided to follow the dog into the pool on a whim.

 

“...saying that you’re going to leave Barcelona,” Gerard continues, “it’s as likely as me leaving. I wish they would stop.”

 

Neymar makes an indistinct noise and takes a sip of his coffee. Shak is looking at him, quiet and perceptive. The kids are yelling outside while the dog barks.

 

Gerard continues ranting, transfer rumors blending into politics, and into his hatred of the board, then to the state of Sergio Ramos’ hair. Neymar looks at his cup of coffee and carefully keeps his feelings out of the bond.

 

*

 

Gerard has to know. They’ve been bonded for over five years. He knows all about Neymar that there is to know, knows him in ways that even his sister doesn’t. And Neymar doesn’t know if it’s just some sort of willful ignorance, or if it’s something else, but Gerard remains joyful and golden in his periphery.

 

A better person would sit Gerard down and explain. About living in shadows, and about losing grasp of legacies. About the lure of becoming bigger than what he is.

 

But Gerard won’t understand. In his life, there is nothing bigger than FC Barcelona.

 

So Neymar doesn’t say anything at all, lets him take the picture instead and put it on twitter.

 

“He stays.” Gerard should know better and Neymar should know better, but neither of them does, and maybe that has always been the point.

 

*

 

The bond severs while Neymar is mid-flight, somewhere halfway over the Atlantic. It breaks off cleanly, like a cauterized wound, a brief swell of feeling and then…

 

Nothing.

 

He barely makes it to the plane bathroom to empty his guts. He comes to, clinging to the rim of the toilet, blinking up at the too bright yellow lights.

 

Greatness tastes like bile in his mouth.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm sad.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
